Gaps
by twinkinu
Summary: Stan has fully recovered almost all of his memories, but some things remain lost to him. He asks his brother for help remembering his horrible life of crime, and Ford recounts some of his multidimensional adventures in return. Rated T for language, violence, and implications of suicide/drugs/rape/other angsty things.
1. Asking for Help

Honestly, Stan was a little embarrassed to be asking his brother for help. Asking for help just wasn't one of the things he did.

But now the niblings were back in Piedmont and only thirteen days lay ahead of Stan and Ford before they set sail on the Stan O' War II, and Stan really wasn't wanting to have any sudden memory seizures or whatever in the middle of the Arctic Ocean.

Here was the thing: not all of his memories were back.

Most of them were. Ford had been there to help him recover everything from his first seventeen years, as well as the fight they had when they were twenty-eight that launched Stanford into the multiverse and Stanley into what became his life's work.

The lab in the basement, the journals, and the dismantled remains of the portal had been there to remind Stan of all the sleepless nights spent desperately trying to reopen the gateway that closed with his brother on the wrong side. Even every detail about taking Stanford's name, starting his own business, and faking the death of Stanley Pines was clear in his memory.

Soos and Wendy and the Mystery Shack had been there to give Stan the memories of all the long days spent conning gullible townsfolk and creating new phony attractions.

Dipper and Mabel, those beautiful, wonderful kids, had been there to bring to light all the events of the summer, all the crazy adventures and trouble they got themselves into. He remembered all the ways they chipped away at his stony exterior and grew the old Grinch's heart three sizes.

But there were gaps.

Stan had anchors for all of the memories that he'd regained. He had people who shared memories with him and things to document what had happened. But between the ages of seventeen and twenty-eight, between being disowned by his family and being summoned to Gravity Falls by his brother, there was nothing.

Stan had nothing.

There were only gaps, sinkholes and bruises in the corners of his hippocampus where ten whole years were simply missing. He knew that he didn't do too well out on his own, because there were small remnants of his youth experiences left around the house: a set of brass knuckles, a collection of fake IDs, scars on his back and arms, a book on dog breeding and pug care. He even had a rough summary of what he'd been through, courtesy of what Stan told Ford and the kids after Ford came out of the portal. But just because Stan remembered _telling_ the story didn't mean that he had the _memories_.

Common sense made it fairly clear that there were probably a lot of things that his old self would have loved to forget about. He knew that the memories he was missing were bad ones and that remembering them would be no walk in the park, but if the memories were half as dangerous as some of the clues and shadows, the scars and newspaper clippings lead him to believe, then shouldn't he know what happened? Shouldn't he have those memories back for the sake of protecting himself? For the sake of protecting his _family?_

He couldn't remember those ten years because he didn't have an anchor. He had no one to tell him what happened. Not that Ford had any way of knowing what happened to Stan all those years ago either, but maybe he could help anyway. Maybe having someone to talk to, to bounce ideas off of, could help Stan sort through the cluttered and confused cardboard boxes littering the attic that was Stan's mind.

So, yeah, honestly, Stan was a little embarrassed to be asking his brother for help. Asking for help just wasn't one of the things he did.

But there was no one else around who could help, and Stan sure as hell knew he wasn't going to be any good at helping himself. So he ventured down to the basement, where Ford was tinkering with inventions and researching the signals he'd received from the Arctic.

"Uh, Sixer?"

Ford didn't turn around, reluctant to tear himself from his research, but his voice was lined with mild surprise when he answered. "Greetings, Stanley. What are you doing here?"

"I, uh..." Oh, Moses. How was Stan supposed to do this again? How did asking for help work? He scratched at the back of his neck. "I was wonderin'... if I could talk to you about somethin'. Or whatever."

Ford tilted his head quizzically to the side, his ears instantly picking up on the hesitant tone in his twin's voice. It was almost… _humble_. That was a tone that nearly never accompanied the smooth-talking liar's gravelly register. Ford spun around on his heel, deciding to abandon his research for now. Whatever Stan had to say, it must have been important. His brow furrowed and a concerned frown on his lips, he nodded, prompting Stan to go on.

"So, I've got all my memories back, y'know?"

"Yes..." Ford spoke slowly. He raised an eyebrow.

"I think maybe that's not all the way true. I still don't remember nothin'-"

"Anything."

"I still don't remember _nothin'_ about what happened in the time between..." he trailed off, considering how to phrase it.

"Between the two arguments between us that ruined each of our lives?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Well, I certainly can't remember any of it _for_ you."

"I know, I know. But listen: you're the doctor, right?"

"I suppose."

"So, just... Maybe can I talk to you about some shit? I think... If I had somebody to sort through my mind with... I mean, if you wanna keep doin' your nerd stuff or whatever, that's fine too, I don't really care. Just, y'know, if you got the time-"

"You're asking me for my help." Ford was doing very poorly to suppress the small smile creeping up on his face.

Stan scoffed. "Whatever, Poindexter. Don't make it weird."

"I don't know what I could possibly do to help you, Stanley," said Ford. "But of course I'll let you talk to me about whatever you remember."

Stan nodded, internally relieved, and turned to start walking back upstairs without another word.

"Would you... like to talk now?"

Stan froze when he heard his brother's voice, chewing on his lip. He thought about it for a moment, but after a quick glance at his watch he decided he'd better get to bed. Besides, he'd spent a good three days mulling over the idea of actually asking his brother for help and now that he'd accomplished that, he was emotionally exhausted. "Seeya in the mornin'," he said finally, continuing his ascent.

Ford nodded in understanding. He supposed that one expression of sincerity, however brief, must have been enough for Stan for one day. "I'll see you in the morning, Stanley."

* * *

Stan was already in the kitchen eating an omelette and drinking coffee when Ford entered the small room, his clear eyes and disheveled hair indicating that he had actually gotten some sleep last night, shockingly enough.

The author poured himself a cup of coffee and a sat down across from his brother, picking up the book on naturopathic medicine that he left on the kitchen table yesterday and starting where he had left off.

The morning went on in silence for a while as Stan worked to build up the amount of nerve necessary to start with what little he already remembered.

To his surprise, it was actually Ford who broke the silence first. "I would be more than happy to do some research and uncover whatever documentation may exist, if you'd like to start with that. Criminal records, police reports; that sort of thing."

Good Lord. He knew his brother was a genius, but was he a friggin' mind reader, too? Stan just stared at his twin for a while. The nerd didn't even look up from his goddamn nerd book while he was talking. "No," he said finally. "I don't wanna... read about myself." The idea of reading emotionless police reports recounting things Stan had done that he couldn't remember himself doing deeply unnerved him.

"Understandable. So, where would you like to start?"

"Uh... I got some stuff, I guess. Impressions. Shit like that."

"For example?"

Stan thought for a while, trying to uncover something.

 _Fear shooting up his spine as he heard an impatient knock at the door._

 _Knowing that this is how he was going to die, that after all his hard work and all his scrapes with death he was going to die in a shitty motel at the hands of some goon he owed money to._

 _Feeling ghost pain from all of the beatings Stan received while they were cellmates. Hoping that Rico would kill him quickly instead of beat him to death like he nearly did a half dozen times._

 _Seeing the mailman at his door and dropping his bat in shock. He wasn't dying. Not today. Not yet._

 _Reading the rough signature at the bottom of the postcard and collapsing to the floor with trembling hands. For the first time in years, he was actually glad to be alive._

Finally, Stan spoke up. "I sorta remember when I got your postcard. Askin' me to come to Gravity Falls."

"That would make sense. There's a phenomenon called flashbulb memory in which a person remembers everything about what was going on in their lives at the time of a particularly emotionally arousing event. It's the reason why Ma and Dad could remember exactly where they were and what they were doing on the day that Pearl Harbor was bombed. Receiving a postcard from me after ten years of silence between us could have elicited enough of an emotional reaction to create a similar effect."

"You're such a friggin' nerd, Poindexter. Ya know that?"

"All that I'm saying is that your mind probably held onto that day more tightly than anything else because there was an event that triggered you to subconsciously consider it important enough to remember everything."

"I don't remember _everything."_

"Well, what do you remember?"

Stan took a deep breath and closed his eyes. "I was in a motel room. Not a good one. Smelled like shit, but it was all I could afford... I kinda have a feelin' I could only afford it on stolen credit cards."

After a moment of silence, Ford decided to prompt him. "Where was the motel?"

The answer came to Stan immediately. "New Mexico."

"How did you get there?"

"Uh, I was..." He shut his eyes tighter.

 _New cuts and scars on his hands and wrists, the aftertaste of toilet wine in the back of his throat, a nagging soreness in his ass._

"I'd been out of prison for a week or two. Tryin' to figure out my next move. Ya made my decision for me with that postcard."

Ford frowned, looking down at the table. He couldn't help but feel a bit hesitant to help his brother remember things that he probably wouldn't enjoy remembering. "The events that you don't remember, Stanley," he said slowly. "It's likely that they're... repressed. Your mind is holding onto the opportunity to forget these things. You realize that, don't you?"

"I'm not an idiot, Poindexter. Well, okay, I'm an idiot, but I know these memories're gonna suck. I still want 'em back. Are _you_ sure ya wanna hear about 'em?"

"I've been through things that you couldn't imagine, Stanley."

"Exactly!" Stan pointed an accusatory finger at his brother. "You have enough crap goin' on in that big head of yours. And everythin' I've been through is kids' stuff compared to whatever nightmare ya lived for thirty years, so whaddaya care whether I remember shit or not? Ya shouldn't. So, I'll ask again: are ya sure ya wanna hear about my memories?"

Ford sighed, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. Over forty years he had forgotten just how difficult Stan was to deal with, and it would take awhile still for him to get fully used to it again.

"Listen. I've been through things you couldn't imagine, but by the looks of it, you've been through things that I couldn't imagine, as well. And if you want to fill the gaps in your memory, which you clearly do, then I ought to help you in whatever way that I can."

"I'm second guessin' whether I want your help," Stan grumbled, turning away. He tried to fill his voice with bitter contempt, but it was fairly clear that in reality he was afraid. He knew that they would be uncovering some vulnerable memories and he was uncomfortable opening himself up, something that he hadn't done in decades. Especially if Ford remained unwilling to tell Stan about his experiences on the other side of the portal. If Ford couldn't become vulnerable in front of Stan, then Stan didn't want to open up to Ford.

Ford opened his eyes and looked at his brother. As if sensing the cause of his twin's uneasiness, he closed his book and quietly set it back onto the table. "Would it help if I told you about what I've been through? We could exchange stories."

Stan looked up, surprised. The guy really was a mind reader, wasn't he? "Okay, Poindexter. But you go first."


	2. Blood Brothers

_A/N: be warned of some mentions of lots of blood coming up... no graphic/gorey descriptions or anything, just mentions of bloodflow and arteries._

* * *

"The passage of time was... _difficult_ as I traveled through the multiverse," Ford began.

"Sometimes, what would have been a week for you passed by in such a way that felt to me like years. Other times, I could see myself aging, my facial hair growing, my bones becoming weaker, and yet the time that passed for me was but a single afternoon. Eventually, I was able to construct a device that could keep track of the way that time was passing in this dimension, but it was bizarre to compare it to the relative passage of time the way that I was experiencing it. As best as I can tell, however, it was about ten years ago when I first entered Dimension 17R-Q. I had stumbled into it as I was running away from some of the people who were searching for me."

"Searchin' for ya? What'd they want?"

"My... _relationship_ with Bill Cipher earned bounties on my head in several dimensions. The knowledge that I had was invaluable in many ways. Not to mention the many stolen pieces of technology in my possession. Luckily, none of the bounties would be paid if I wasn't turned in alive.

"Dimension 17R-Q seemed to be a sort of paradise at first. There was no apparent sign of civilization anywhere near my entry point into the dimension, just yellow grasses and crystalline mountains as far as my eyes could see. It was beautiful. It really was. But I was only able to enjoy the landscape about thirty-five seconds before I was knocked unconscious. I woke up in a cold, dark room with tied hands and blood matting the hair on the back of my head."

"I know how that feels," Stan muttered without thinking.

Ford furrowed his brow, looking up at his brother. "Do you?"

Stan swallowed thickly.

 _Deep headache. Immobile legs. Ropes cutting into wrists. Pitch darkness making it impossible to see. Thick tongue and scratchy throat making it painful to speak._ 'Dónde estoy?'

 _No answer. The sound of an engine roaring, jolting the car into motion. The realization sinking in._ 'Para el coche! Yo te daré la plata! Te lo voy a dar!'

 _Claustrophobia setting in. Breathing becoming difficult. Desperation growing._

 _Cracked teeth, bloody tongue, torn lips from chewing the latch off of the trunk. Bruised skin, broken bones, skinned face from tumbling out onto the road. Adrenaline supplying the strength to roll off the side of the freeway as cars speeding at 80 miles per hour swerved around the body, honking angrily._

"No. I mean, don't worry about it. Keep goin'."

Ford eyed Stan suspiciously. "You remembered something."

"Not enough to talk about. I'll wait my turn."

After a long moment of hesitation, Ford continued. "The first thing that I noticed after waking up was that it smelled like blood... God, it smelled so much like blood. Then, I noticed that whoever had taken me had stripped me of everything that I kept in my coat. As my pupils adjusted to the darkness, I could see that there were two men there.

"When they saw that I was awake they asked me who I was. That was when I realized they hadn't captured me for the sake of the bounty. They were criminals, wanted by the law just the same as I was. But I couldn't risk them finding out about the bounty and turning me in, so I didn't answer.

"They apparently were not fans of my silence; they were quick to punch me in the face. But I'd endured pain much worse than that, so I was easily able to suppress any reaction."

"Oh, I bet that pissed 'em off. They wanna see ya writhe in pain."

Ford glanced back up at his twin, a deep disturbance in the pit of his stomach creasing his brow and setting a deep frown in his face.

Stan waved a hand dismissively. "I'll wait my turn," he repeated.

"Well, you're correct. It pissed them off. Luckily, they couldn't really figure out how to use any of the weapons that they'd stolen off of me, so they weren't able to blow off my entire arm or disintegrate me to ash. What they _did_ do, however, they picked up a highly dangerous axionic field generator and start beating me over the head with it."

"A what?"

Ford sighed, resisting the urge to actually explain the device. He knew that whatever he said to explain the danger of a vacuum-like field of cold dark matter would go right over Stan's head. "A really big gun."

"Ohh."

"So they knocked me around, broke my nose, dislocated my jaw. They just kept asking me who I was. They had apparently been following me for quite some time, but they must have been pretty dense to not have realized how rich they could be if they turned me in. I figured it was only a matter of time before they realized who I was, so I decided to answer their questions with lies to throw them off of my trail." Ford closed his eyes, remembering how painful it had been to speak after the men had knocked his jaw out of place.

"So, who'd ya say ya were?"

"I used the first name that came to mind, a name that I knew they wouldn't recognize: Fiddleford McGucket."

Stan grinned, jabbing an accusatory finger at his brother. "Ha! See, you're no better than me! Ya took your friend's name to cover your ass! It's the same thing I did!"

The author scoffed. "I never stole his house, his research, and his identity, nor did I commit a series of felonies under his name, but sure. We're basically on the same moral level, here."

There was a thick moment of silence between the brothers before the older twin cleared his throat and continued. "Anyway. Knowing my name was enough to stop them from beating me. They whispered to each other briefly, confirming that they hadn't heard my name anywhere, and I interrupted them to ask what they wanted with me.

"They didn't answer my question, but the most _disturbing_ smiles appeared on their faces." Ford shuddered. "Lord, I remember it so well."

He stopped talking then, staring blankly over his brother's shoulder and at nothing. His eyes were far away.

"Sixer?" Stan said softly. An unsettling feeling of worry was growing inside of him. "Sixer, what'd they do?"

The author was incredibly still. His mouth opened and closed noiselessly a few times before he abruptly jerked himself back into reality, looking Stan in the eye. He continued in a nonchalant tone, trying to fool himself into thinking that what he was saying wasn't much to think of. "They wanted my blood, for some sort of perverse ritual."

Stan's throat was dry. "How much?"

"Too much. Enough to render me unconscious before too long."

"Well, was the needle at least-"

"There was no needle," Ford scoffed incredulously. "These men were imbeciles, remember? There was no medical equipment lying around. The ripped off my pants, cut into my femoral artery, and put a bucket under my leg."

Stan cringed.

"They just laughed as they did it." Ford's thigh started twitching uncomfortably as he recalled the harsh sting of hard dust and cold oxygen entering his bloodstream. "One of them tore open my shirt to reveal my scars. They laughed and laughed and drew little designs into my chest with a rusty blade, claiming that they were 'adding to the collection.'"

"Ford..."

"I didn't know what they would do with me after they took my blood. I was already feeling incredibly lightheaded at this point. It was hard to break. My pulse was weak. I was cold... I was so _cold_ , Stanley. I knew that soon I would lose consciousness, and when I did they could do whatever they wanted with my body. And I was frightened." He closed his eyes, taking a shaky breath. "I was so frightened."

A concerned frown drew itself onto Stan's face and he leaned forward. The thought of them doing this to his brother, his little nerd brother who he'd always had to look after, was killing him. Cutting him open to drain his blood, humiliating him and _enjoying_ it. It hurt too much for Stan to dwell on the thought of his twin being so afraid, so helpless, so he decided to prompt him to focus on a different aspect of the story. His voice was soft as he asked, "What did they do with it?"

"I only know what little I was able to pick up from their conversations before I became too dizzy to understand what they were saying. They were planning some sort of… ceremony. To summon someone, or some _thing_. They kept saying she was waiting for them, she would be pleased to finally have sacrifices, she would spare them from her tyranny and reward them greatly for their devotion… And then I woke up in the same field that they found me in, a tourniquet under my groin and all of my weapons returned to me. Why they didn't kill me, I'll never know... Perhaps whatever bizarre cult that they were in wouldn't allow murder."

"Moses. Ya ever figure out what the hell they were talkin' about?"

"Once I regained enough strength, I tracked down the location they took me to and investigated. There were cultish things everywhere, sigils and spellbooks and... other people's blood."

"And?"

"None of their customs had any basis. There was writing on the walls everywhere, and the books that I found strewn about the house were all fictional. They were insane; completely and utterly insane."

"Wow." Stan sat back, looking up at the ceiling. "That's messed up."

Ford snorted at his brother's understatement. "I suppose."

"I..." _I'm sorry?_ Stan was going to have to learn how to be sincere with his brother again, and he was going to have to learn fast. "I can't believe I wasn't there to protect ya," he eventually said, surprising himself.

Ford looked surprised, as well. "What do you mean?"

"Well, hell, how many times did I take the bullet for ya when we were kids? I always told myself I'd be around whenever ya were gonna get hurt, so I could protect ya. And there ya were, tied up by a coupla wackos, gettin' carved up like Thanksgiving dinner, and where was I?"

"You couldn't possibly have helped. I was in another _dimension_ , Stanley." Ford was nonplussed.

"Yeah, well, that was my fault, too."

"I built the portal."

"I pushed you in."

The brothers stared at each other down for a long time, significance building in their gaze.

Since Ford was the one to first break eye contact, it was only fair for Stan to be the first to break the silence. "I guess it's my turn now, huh?"

"If you'd like."

"Well, I got nothin' to tell ya. Don't remember anything enough to make a whole story out of it."

Ford nodded in understanding. "That's okay," he said. "We'll wait until you do."


	3. 500,000 Colombian Pesos

_A/N: fair warning: prison things ahead. heavy cursing, threats, implied rape. fun stuff like that._

 _also, there are a few Colombian slang terms used in this chapter. mainly: "gringo" (basically what latin americans call white people, sorta derogatory), "m'ijo" (short for "mi hijo," my boy), "parcero" (like "amigo"), and "llave" (a close friend)_

* * *

 _Waking up to the invasive stench of rotten oranges, ketchup, and puke. Looking over to see Rico cracking open his bag of pruno and chugging it down._

 _'Can't even wait till after breakfast?'_

 _'Get drunk faster on an empty stomach,' the inmate drawled._

 _Stan groaned and covered his nose with a hand, hoping that they'd get to sit peacefully in thick, foul-odored silence until the floor coordinator came to tell them it was time for breakfast. But instead, Rico spoke up._

 _'You got my money yet?'_

Whoops. _Stan owed Rico a lot of money that had accumulated over time. 'I'll bet you five thousand pesos I can drink that whole bag of pruno without throwin' up.' 'C'mon, man, I can't choke that goddamn bongo down again today. Just fifteen hundred lucas for a piece of bread and some milk from the shop.' 'My guy, my pal!_ Mi llave! _I'm real short on rent for the cell. C'mon, Rico, you can't throw me out with the pirates, not after all we've been through! Just cover me for now, and I'll pay ya back.'_

 _Stan had tried helping out in the kitchen. They give you pocket money for that, plus it shortens your sentence, but he just couldn't stomach seeing all the (literal) crap that went into their slop. With his in-prison financial situation as bad as it was, he couldn't afford to keep asking Rico and Jorge to buy him real food, so it was best for him to stay in the dark about what was in the food and just eat it. Ignorance was bliss, right?_

 _Unless you're too stupid to even hold your own, riding on your brother's coattails…_

No, Stan. Shut up. Ya can't think about that shit, not now. It's been seven years. Be a man.

 _'Still workin' on it,' Stan finally replied, voice a small, reluctant mumble._

 _'You better hurry up with the cash,_ m'ijo _. Your interest's piling up.'_

 _Stan couldn't help but chuckle a little bit. Rico was such a jokester. 'I know it,_ parcero _. Your rates are just nuts,' he quipped._

 _'They might be. But you know what they say,_ m'ijo. Plata o plomo.'

 _Stan blinked. It took him a moment, but eventually he remembered what that meant: silver or lead. Cash or a coffin. In layman's terms: give me my money or I'll blow your goddamn brains out. 'What? You're serious?'_

 _'Sure as shit ain't joking,_ gringo.'

 _Stan sat up quickly, furrowing his brow. 'Rico, I thought we were friends!_ Llave, _remember?'_

 _The Colombian stood, dragging his feet over to his cellmate with a wild look in his eye. 'You know how I got myself in this place,_ m'ijo?'

 _Stan's mouth was suddenly very dry. He shook his head, unable to form words._

 _'I lose my temper real fast when little white boys think they can throw money around however they want.'_

 _Stan was by no means a 'little white boy.' He was half a foot taller than Rico, broad-shouldered and square-jawed, and from what he could tell he was only a couple of years younger than the Colombian. But as Rico approached Stan menacingly, hand deep in his pocket to reach for some concealed object, Stan felt very, very small._

 _'I been here ten years,_ m'ijo _. And I'm getting out soon. When I do, I hope for your sake you got twenty-five hundred of your precious American dollars to give me.'_

'Twenty-five hundred?! _I owe ya half a million in Colombian pesos, Rico! That's it!'_

 _'Processing fee,' Rico spat, pulling a jagged piece of broken glass from his pocket and holding it to Stan's throat. 'And don't think I'm bluffing,' he threatened._

 _From the bunk above him, Stan heard Jorge grumble,_ 'Rico no disfruta de deuda no pagada.'

 _What? Stan didn't speak very much Spanish. He only knew things like 'where's the money,' 'get out of my face,' 'do what he says,' 'he has a gun,' 'please don't kill me,' and little pieces of Colombian slang he picked up from associating with gangs. So Jorge's traditional Spanish in his gravelly Mexican accent usually came across as nothing but Greek to the conman._

 _Still, he had a bad feeling about the dark and foreboding tone in Jorge's voice._

 _Then, they were dismissed to breakfast. But Stan was even less hungry than usual._

 _He stayed in the cell while Rico and Jorge ate their 'food' in the cafeteria, never moving from his spot. He was afraid that the slightest motion might make him vomit._

 _God, he needed to find a way to pay this guy back._

* * *

Ford wasn't able to sleep very well that night, but his insomnia wasn't at all uncommon, so it didn't bother him. When the scientist's mind wasn't weighed down with oppressive thoughts that left him locked in his private study for days at a time, it moved constantly and without regard for the need for sleep. His thoughts rushed together and his brain became its own perpetual motion machine, never allowing him to close his eyes and experience peace.

After an hour or two of staring at the ceiling in deep thought, Ford sat up, put on his glasses, and headed to the kitchen to brew himself a pot of coffee; if he was going to be up all time anyway, he may as well get some caffeine in his system and do something productive with his time. He sat at the table after turning on the coffee pot and tried calculate what he would do when he returned to his lab.

He had made a lot of progress on his research the day before; after the morning story-swapping with his twin, he had been able to retire to the basement and complete his research on sea monsters and the various species that may lay in wait for them in the depths of the Arctic.

He had found some information in his notes from when he discovered that some of the more... _aggressive_ aquatic beasts could be temporarily petrified by a certain concoction. He recalled that the primary ingredient of the substance was mystic earth collected from the roots of a revered sugar pine in the forest. Perhaps Ford could do some field work and attempt to strike a deal with an autumn dryad. Although, he had never been skilled at talking to the more effeminate paranatural creatures...

The author's musings were interrupted by a loud thud from upstairs. "The hell...?"

Another. Then another.

 _Thud. Thud. Thud._

Ford soon realized that it was the sound of a fist pounding against the wall.

"Stanley?" he called, stepping out of the kitchen. "Stanley, are you awake? I could use your help in winning the favor of a coniferous nymph!"

Silence for a long moment. Then, the sound of a strangled cry ripping from Stan's throat.

* * *

 _Waking up and expecting morning. Finding instead a dark room, a clock showing 3:17, and Rico pulling him out of bed._

 _Facing the wall, being roughly forced to press against it. Trying to move and feeling a blade against his neck. Trying to speak and feeling a torn piece of cloth gagging him._

 _He was going to die. Rico was going to kill him right here, right now, and Stan would die without ever getting another chance to talk to-_

No. Not now. You've talked your way out of death before. You can do it again.

 _When Stan tried to talk through his gag, Rico urged him to keep his voice low before removing it and allowing the American to speak._

 _'If ya kill me, ya won't get any of your money.'_

 _Rico chuckled, and the sound of it almost made Stan throw up in his mouth. 'Don't worry,_ m'ijo _. I ain't gonna kill you.' Rico put the gag back between Stan's teeth, then moved his knife down and cut the drawstring of the conman's pants, causing them to fall down around his ankles. 'I just thought of a way you could make up some of your debt._

 _Stan threw up in his mouth for real, this time. A feeling of dread rose in his gut and he pounded his fist on the wall in protest._

Thud. Thud. Thud.

 _'Make all the noise you want,_ gringo _. Ain't nobody gonna come help you. Someone comes, they'll either laugh or join in. You know it.'_

 _Stan gulped, then exhaled shakily. Rico was right. He stopped pounding on the wall, conceding defeat. He had no money, and he had no choice. When he saw Rico's smug smile out of the corner of his eye, he glared with contempt, but the Colombian's smirk only grew._

 _Stan couldn't help but start punching the wall again as the night slowly turned into morning. His skin tore open, bloody knuckles leaving brown stains across the concrete. But he didn't stop._

 _It was the only way for him to stop screaming._

* * *

Ford dashed to his brother's bedroom, raygun at the ready. What could have possibly entered the house without Ford noticing? It didn't matter; Ford would kill it. He had just made up with his brother, and he wasn't about to lose him to some paranormal prick.

The banging on the wall got louder, faster, more frantic. Ford barged into Stan's room with his weapon drawn, but to his surprise, he saw no threat. Hesitantly, he walked toward his twin, raygun still ready just in case. "Stan?"

The younger twin was hiding his face with one arm, the other arm punching desperately against the wall. He was trembling and coated in a layer of cold sweat, occasionally letting out a strangled whimper and digging his knuckles into the wall with more force.

 _A nightmare._

Ford knew plenty about these. Hell, even if he _hadn't_ experienced them countless times himself, he still remembered all the nights that he had to wake his brother from bad dreams when they were kids.

"Stan." Ford's voice was more confident this time as he knelt beside the sleeping man's bed. He slid his raygun back into its holster and watched his twin, frowning. Whatever he was dreaming about, it seemed to be much worse than anything he ever dreamed about when they were younger.

 _My dreams have gotten much worse since then, as well, I suppose._

"Stan, you're having a bad dream. Wake up." He considered slapping his brother in the face to rouse him, but opted instead for the gentler route of running a hand through Stan's hair.

Stan jerked away from the contact with an alarming amount of force. He curled in on himself more tightly and hid his face with greater resolve. The author pulled his hand away as if it had touched a hot burner.

"Hey," he said loudly, a more forceful tone taking over his voice. He saw Stan rousing slightly, his consciousness beginning to float forward, just below the surface. "It's me, Stanley. It's your brother. It's Stanford." He reached down again and placed a firm hand on Stan's shoulder.

Jolting upright, suddenly wide awake and in a deep panic, Stan lashed the hand away. _"Don't you FUCKING touch me!"_ he screamed. He heaved out labored breaths, trembling violently as he took in the flood of relief that no one was touching him. Now that his face was uncovered, Ford could see how flushed red and coated with tears it was, how his hair stuck to his forehead and his eyes darted anxiously around the room. For the first time since they were kids, Ford looked at his brother and saw desperation, vulnerability. He was terrified.

Ford was speechless. And as Stan realized where he was, when he was, and who was sitting right in front of him, he found himself speechless, as well.

They stared at each other for the longest time, Ford alarmed, Stan ashamed, neither one knowing what to say.

Finally, Stan broke eye contact, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands before jamming his glasses onto his face. "Why'd ya hafta remind me I went to prison, Sixer?" His tone was a pathetic attempt at joviality.

The wheels started turning in Ford's brain as he recovered from the shock of is twin's violent outburst. Stan had been dreaming about his time in prison. Whatever caused that vulnerability, that shame written all over Stan's face, it had happened in real life. He wasn't just having a nightmare, he... "You remembered something."

"No shit, Sherlock." Stan wanted to leave. He was battling himself internally because he knew that the decent-human-being thing to do would be to just talk to his brother, but he also knew that the Stan Pines thing to do was to run away. Maybe he could meet somewhere in the middle and make Ford leave. "What're you doing in my room?" he tried, hoping that it might give the scientist a hint to leave Stan alone.

"You were..." Ford hesitated, but continued. "You weren't remembering anything peacefully." He turned his gaze pointedly to the wall, where there were multiple dents and a couple of gaping holes where Stan had punched all the way through.

Stan cringed when he saw the traces of blood along the walls, then looked down at his hands. He hadn't just been violent when he woke up. He was lashing out the whole time that he was asleep. "So you wanted to wake me up."

Ford just nodded, saying nothing. He didn't want to speak anymore unless he had to. He would say the wrong thing. He always said the wrong thing.

"Well... Thanks. I like it better here than in my head."

The scientist nodded again.

"You're gonna make me tell ya about it, aren't ya?"

Nothing from Ford. Not even a nod this time.

"No one cut me open and stole my blood, if that's what you're wonderin'."

More silence. Stan was nearing the end of his rope.

"Talk to me, for Moses' sake, Ford! You're freakin' me out."

But what in the multiverse was Ford supposed to say? He had no idea what Stanley had been dreaming about, but whatever it was, he was obviously uncomfortable. Did Ford really have any business pressing his discomfort and making him discuss him nightmare? Then again, yesterday Ford had pointed out that Stan would probably experience distress as he regained his memories, and Stan still wanted his help. So, Ford should help him.

 _Right?_

He sighed, braving a sentence. "It is your turn, you know."

Stan scowled, turning away. "What time is it?"

Ford looked at his watch. "3:17 a.m."

The conman flinched, remembering what the wall clock had read when Rico dragged him out of bed that night. "Shit. Okay. Gimme a minute. I'll meet ya downstairs."

Ford nodded, relieved that he had apparently made the right decision, and he turned to head toward the kitchen. Surely, the coffee would be ready by now, and he could make himself a cup.

He paused at the door and looked back hesitantly. "Shall I make you a cup of coffee?"

"Mm," Stan grunted his approval of the idea, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. "Make it Irish."


	4. Save Some Face

Stan took a long drink of the coffee his brother prepared for him and promptly launched into a fit of coughing.

"Sweet Moses, Ford! When I said 'make it Irish' I didn't mean 'add some coffee to my whiskey.'"

Ford chuckled sheepishly. "Sorry. My, uh, tolerance is pretty high."

He reached to take the coffee from his brother so he could dump it and try again, but Stan held up a hand to stop him and took another drink. "No, this is what I need. Just caught me off guard."

Ford nodded in understanding and sat down. "So... you were dreaming about prison?"

"Yeah."

The author remembered the conversation he and his brother had all those years ago.

 _'I've been in prison in three different countries...'_

"Which one?"

"What do you mean?"

"You told me you had been in prison in three countries. Which one was this?"

The younger twin blinked. He'd forgotten that he told his brother that detail. "Colombia."

Ford's eyes widened. "You've been in a _Colombian_ prison?"

"Well, shit, what three countries did ya think I was talkin' about? US, Canada, and Puerto Rico?"

"Puerto Rico isn't-"

"Whatever." Stan ran his hands down his face, heaving a sigh. "Anyway, yeah. I was in Colombia. With these two goons- Jorge and Rico. Rico was some sort of mastermind, I dunno. But he had a good amount of money and he was friends with everyone. Well, the jail version of friends where he didn't care enough about 'em to try and kill 'em, and _they_ were too scared of _him_ to try and kill _him_."

"How did you end up his cellmate?"

"Don't remember. Just know I was rentin' the cell. Jail was overpopulated and ya only got a room if ya could afford it. Kids were called 'pirates' when they didn't have a cell to go to, and they kinda just crashed in the hallways I guess, or got locked in the cafeteria. Dunno."

"Were you friends with Rico?"

"I _thought_ so. Hell, we were partners in crime as far as I was concerned. Later I figured out I was shit under his shoes, but I dunno why. We met under good circumstances, even. I moved in with him and Jorge, I gave them my most dazzlin' smile, they beat me until my teeth bled, I fought back a little, not too much. Everything went right."

Ford was gaping at Stan incredulously.

"What?" Stan said defensively. "Ya never been to prison before?"

"I've never been exposed to other inmates."

"What, were ya in solitary or somethin'?"

Ford hummed, nodding. "I was very dangerous."

Stan rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. "Always gotta one-up me, don'tcha?"

The older twin couldn't help but smile, amused by his brother's tendency to bicker. "You're not going to distract me from the matter at hand, Stanley."

Stan groaned dramatically, slumping back in his chair. "I know."

"So, you thought Rico was your friend," Ford prompted, trying to put the conversation on track.

The conman did his best to relay the events of his dream; he got through the first half pretty easily, but started to falter as he recounted the exact nature of Rico's intentions.

Listen and try not to react was all that Ford could do. He knew that Stan was having trouble, and he didn't want to make it even harder by getting emotional.

But it was hard.

Stan had never been one to beat around the bush, but now he couldn't seem to bring himself to say anything directly. He was dancing around the issue, slowing down to describe the goddamn graffiti on the wall but breezing right past the fact that Rico was holding a knife to his throat.

It killed Ford to see his brother so uncharacteristically nervous, embarrassed, fumbling over his words.

"I told him it would be stupid to kill me, and, uh- y'know, he said that's not what he was gonna do."

"What did he do?"

"I'm gettin' there, Sixer. Hold your horses," Stan snapped, staring down at his hands. "I guess he figured out I was never gonna get enough money to pay him back. So he said he'd... help me out. Get other things from me to lower my debt."

Too vague. Stan was still being too vague. Ford didn't say anything this time, just waited patiently for his brother to find the words (and the courage) to continue.

He could start putting the pieces together, though, and he clenched his fists, praying to whoever might be listening that his assumption was wrong.

"So, he..." Stan really didn't wanna say anything. Eventually, he decided he didn't have to. If Stanford was such a goddamn genius, he could figure it out by himself. "He put the gag back on me, spit in his hand, and... y'know. All night long."

Stan downed the rest of his 'coffee' and stood up to get a refill, avoiding his twin at all costs.

Ford ground his teeth together. What should he say? What _could_ he say? The blind rage he felt for the bastard who would actually do that to another human being was being battled by the profound sadness he felt for how _degrated_ his brother seemed to feel about it all. Stan couldn't look Ford in the eye the whole time he told the story, and now he seemed distressed to even be in the same room.

He knew that reacting would just make Stan feel worse. But he had to kill the silence, so he asked another question.

"How much did he take off your debt?"

"A thousand pesos."

Ford couldn't do anything to suppress his outrage. "That's equivalent to thirty American cents!" he exclaimed.

Stan was apathetic to Ford's protests. He had long since accepted just how cruel Rico's 'exchange rate' was. "Yeah," he said blandly, shrugging.

Suddenly, a horrid, disgusting, contemptible thought entered Ford's mind. _How many times did this happen? How much money did Stan make up? What other methods of alleviating the debt did Rico come up with?_

They sat in painful silence for what seemed to be hours, Stan staying at the counter, coffee cup in hand, his back to his twin. Eventually, he got sick of it and turned back around, heaving a sigh. "It's your turn," he said, dropping his mug back onto the table. Some drink sloshed out, and Ford could see that there was no coffee in it at all.

The scientist sighed, trying to think of something that could possibly be appropriate to mention now. Everything coming to his mind was either too light or much, much too heavy.

Perhaps a story with no human contact would suit the situation best.

* * *

 _A/N:_ I would appreciate reviews and/or pms with anything you might want me to write in as components of either brother's past, or for some brothery bonding moments! It doesn't all have to be as heavy-hitting as what I've written so far.

 _I'm also ALWAYS up for constructive criticism and critiques!_

thank you guys, and have a good day!


	5. Bright White Wasteland (i)

_A/N: This chapter started getting very, very long, so the plot is broken into two parts!_

* * *

Stanford's heart pounded against his ribcage, sweat drenching his brow despite the subzero temperatures as he pressed on for the mountains and ignored the searing agony crawling up his right leg. The great beast was dangerously close on Stanford's heels, and it was closing distance quickly. The fugitive beat out labored breaths, puffing white steam into the air as he ran. Pain and exhaustion were weighing on him, threatening to bring him down at any second, and when he collapsed the beast would waste no time in tackling its newfound prey.

Stanford needed a plan, and he was running out of time to think of one.

When he had entered this tundra, he had been thrown from a multidimensional gateway high in the air and dropped into three feet of snow. Not only was his leg twisted in all sorts of wrong ways when he landed, but his invention that detected openings to other dimensions and allowed Stanford to pass through? Also broken. And the fugitive had a bad feeling that this dimension wouldn't exactly have a large selection of spare parts with which he could fix the device.

He had been right. He spent a seemingly endless amount of time traveling that tundra, searching for something, anything, but it was hopeless. The entire landscape was a blank canvas, nothing but bright white and harsh winds for miles, miles, miles, miles...

Nothing but a foggy violet mountain range visible on the distant horizon.

For days (had it been days? weeks? Or only an hour? The sun never went down, the sky a permanent pale grey), Stanford had trekked toward the mountains, desperate for some sort of shelter from the deafening wind. His large goggles and thick scarf only did so much to shield him from the elements.

His right leg ached with every step he took; he had to rest soon to see what he could do to fix it (more importantly, he needed to fix the rift indicator so that he could get the hell out of here) but he needed to find shelter first. The danger of hypothermia was real, and despite Stanford's thick gloves, heavy boots, and multiple layers of jackets, he was beginning to lose feeling in his fingers and toes. To prevent his body temperature from dropping too low, he never stopped to rest, never allowed himself to stop moving, but his efforts to keep himself warm were wearing on his spirits as he became exhausted.

Stanford noted 'pain,' 'freezing,' and 'exhaustion' as items in a mental list of things he would complain about if he had experienced any contact with human beings (or anything capable of conversation) in the past several months.

Perhaps if he were able to find some sort of animal to kill for food, he would allow himself to rest for long enough to eat it. But since entering this dimension, he'd seen no signs of life. No tracks or droppings or vegetation that would offer sustenance to primary consumers—nothing.

Stanford added 'starvation' to the list.

When he finally started nearing the lavender-grey mountains and found a large cave poking up from the ground, he nearly wept.

But his joy was shortlived. The bloody bones lying in one corner of the cave and the relatively fresh droppings in the other corner left Stanford with the very unfortunate assumption that something already lived here.

Something big.

Something carnivorous.

And if the lack of life Stanford had noticed since entering the dimension was any sign of available prey, he would assume that whatever lived here was also very, very hungry.

And when it suddenly appeared behind him, a deep growl causing him to spin around and find himself inches from its massive teeth, he discovered that it was much bigger and much more carnivorous than he had previously thought.

And much hungrier.

Stanford held his breath, staring in shock at the monster before him. It was tremendous, thick white fur, large pink hands, six-inch claws. The fugitive was quick to note that the beast's eyes were incredibly small, which meant it likely relied on sound and smell to locate its prey.

It was sniffing Stanford now. If he could just slowly inch for his pistol... maybe... he could grab it... without the beast noticing...

The creature suddenly lunged forward, violently pinning Stanford to the ground.

 _Shit._ It noticed. He abandoned all attempts at subtlety and quickly grabbed the gun, pounding the butt of it against the beast's beady, black eye. The thing shot upward and clutched its face in its massive hands, moaning in pain. Ford seized the opportunity to sprint away, but it wasn't long before the beast was after him, hot on his trail.

His breathing labored, he pressed on toward the mountains; surely, the jagged rocks would offer more shelter and perhaps even a hiding place from the monster.

Stanford's leg felt like it was about to fall off. He started feeling dizzy, nearly collapsing from the pain. And the hypothermia. And the exhaustion. And the starvation.

He had to stop soon. He was _going_ to stop soon, whether he wanted to or not, and he had to get himself to safety before it happened.

Stanford cried out and fell to his knees when a large claw reached out and swiped at him, easily penetrating the layers of clothing and slicing a deep gash into his back. The freezing wind bit into the wound immediately, and Stanford's entire body convulsed with pain.

He turned around quickly, grabbing his gun and firing frantically at the monster's face. It roared in pain and surprise, stumbling backward.

The creature was immense, and the gun's blasts did little in the way of actually injuring it – _if I survive this, I'll have to come up with some sort of ray gun; raw energy would cause much more damage than bullets_ – but Stanford had managed to hit its eyes and nose, effectively impairing its senses of sight and smell as well as confusing the hell out of it.

He eyed a large pile of rocks just a few meters away and shot at the base of the heap, causing a small landslide to fall between him and the beast. This further confused it, as it now relied solely on its ability to hear and the ruckus echoed all around them. The beast groaned and whipped its head around frantically, startled.

All that Stanford had to do now was make sure that he remained silent as he escaped-

 _Could_ he escape? He was certain that his core temperatures must be at this point dropping well below thirty-five degrees Celsius, and he couldn't even shiver for warmth anymore; his body was locking up and his uselessly chilled muscles resisted contraction and relaxation alike. The encroaching hypothermia was not only severely reducing Stanford's capacity for movement, but also his capacity for clear, logical, and rational thought—not to mention all the other factors dulling his awareness: pain, exhaustion, starvation, and now bloodloss. Everything weighing down on the fugitive posed serious threats to his ability to stay conscious.

The beast was the last thing on Stanford's mind as he began to realize the critical nature of his situation. The survivor in him knew that letting himself pass out now was a stupid move; He was already starting to lose feeling in his hands and his legs and his mind, metabolic processes creeping to a near-standstill, and he couldn't afford to become apathetic now. He couldn't afford to deliver himself to the ice and snow and surrender to a hypothermic stupor.

But the more that he thought about it, consciousness _did_ start to sound a bit overrated... Would it really be that bad if Stanford just... took a deep breath... buried his face in his scarf... curled up to conserve heat... and closed his eyes...

 _Just for a moment..._

* * *

"So what happened?" Stan took a swig of not-coffee from his mug as he leaned forward, yearning to know the end of the story.

Ford was so relieved to have his brother making eye contact with him again. He happily continued his story, glad to be serving as an adequate distraction.

* * *

 _No. I can't fall asleep. I'll die out here. I just have to keep pushing. Keep pushing…_

 _YOU'LL DIE NO MATTER WHAT YOU DO, SIX FINGERS! IF YOUR BODY'S GONNA CRAP OUT ON YOU ANYWAY, YOU MIGHT AS WELL SNOOZE IT BEFORE YOU LOSE IT!_

Stanford looked around frantically. He felt a small flush of warmth caused by the hazardous increase in his heart rate; had he still been fully capable of rational thought, he might have urged himself to calm down, knowing that he couldn't afford any extraneous exertion, but there were more pressing matters at hand. _That voice..._ The distinctive layered register of the New-World demon injected itself coldly into Stanford's sentience. It rang so clearly in Stanford's head that even after four years being on the other side of the portal, even in his disoriented state, he recognized it instantly. He could never forget the sound of that incisive isosceles cutting into his mind with despicable dreams and ignominious ideas. It was taunting him. Always _taunting_ him.

"Show yourself, Cipher!" Stanford demanded.

 _AW, COME ON, IQ! HEY, YOU LOOK A LITTLE WARM. WHY NOT TAKE OFF YOUR COAT AND STAY A WHILE? GOOD LORDIE, FORDSIE, YOU'RE BURNING UP!_

 _"It is warm... When did it get so warm?"_

 _WELL OF COURSE IT'S WARM! LOOK AT ALL THOSE LAYERS YOU'VE GOT ON! ALL THAT WINTER GARB SURE IS STYLISH AND ALL, BUT THAT SKIN PRISON OF YOURS AIN'T GONNA CARE ABOUT FASHION WHEN IT'S DEAD!_

"You're right," Stanford admitted. Even as resilient as the human body was, physiological processes alone wouldn't be capable of maintaining homeostasis in such extreme weather conditions. It was hot – too hot – and Stanford needed to help his body stay alive by shedding some layers.

 _ATTA BOY! CAN'T CHANGE THE WORLD IF YOUR MEATSACK KICKS THE BUCKET NOW!_

Stanford tore his scarf off first, an oversized wrap knit with thick roving from ovinoids in Dimension 88B. It had been wrapped around his neck and face, protecting him from the elements above the shoulders, keeping his breath warm so that he wouldn't freeze his lungs. After hastily ridding his body of the warm article, he stared down at it in his hands. The air bit into his now-naked face. He only felt warmer. He took off his hat, now, but still his temperature rose. Next, his gloves. His shoes. His socks. His coat. With each piece of clothing he removed, his panic doubled until he was ripping through the fabric, frenzied and frantic. With each piece of clothing he removed, he only got warmer, warmer, hot, hot, hot, burning, _burning!_

"I'm going to die," he realized. It felt like he was gasping for air, but his breath was shallow and small, almost inaudible.

 _SURE ARE! YOUR CORPOREAL BODY IS WEAK AND FRAGILE, LIKE A LITTLE KITTEN IN A PLASTIC BAG! BUT LISTEN, LET'S MAKE A DEAL: I WON'T LET YOU DIE LIKE THIS. BESIDES! I'VE GOT TONS OF PLANS FOR YOUR FLESH VESSEL AND THEY WON'T BE ANY FUN IF I CAN'T HEAR YOU BEGGING ME TO STOP. SO HOW'S ABOUT IT, SIX FINGERS? LET ME BACK IN YOUR HEAD AND I'LL SAVE YOUR LIFE._

Stanford scowled. "I won't let you possess me anymore, Cipher," he spat. "Not until I'm dead."

 _WELL, HEY, NOW THAT YOU MENTION IT, THAT MIGHT NOT BE SO BAD. YOU DO LOOK PRETTY AWFUL, IQ. HOW ABOUT A NAP?_

"No, I can't. I need to find shelter. Before I burn... I need to get to safety before I burn..."

 _CLOSE YOUR EYES, SIX FINGERS. AREN'T YOU TIRED? YOU LOOK SO TIRED._

The demon's voice dropped to an incredibly deep tone at the end. In this distorted and disturbing register, he continued:

 _DON'T YOU TRUST ME, FORDSIE?_

 _TRUST ME..._

Stanford's eyes shot open.

TRUST NO ONE.

He tried to sit up, but his skin was like cold, expired putty and his muscles were rusted shut. He felt like cardboard; he couldn't move.

Realization flooded his mind. There had been no Bill. There had been no conversation. There had been no burning.

TRUST NO ONE.

Stanford was entering a state of profound hypothermia; the hallucinations had begun. The subzero temperatures were beginning to eat away at his brain, his neural impulses slowing down with each degree drop in his core temperature. Suddenly, he was back in reality and all he could feel was cold, cold, _cold._

He was so cold.

No, he was numb.

No, he was dying.

TRUST NO ONE.

He looked down at himself and saw the clothing scattered among the snow around him, leaving him in only his faded biker jeans and a tattered undershirt. He'd been a victim of paradoxical undressing. In his delusions, he'd started to feel so cold that he thought he was on fire.

His eyes landed on his overcoat, just a few feet away. Deciding to take advantage of his lucid moment to reach for the coat, he heaved himself forward and landed on top of it, clinging to the shreds of consciousness remaining that told him what he needed.

His body was functional enough to push itself over onto the coat, but his extremities refused to move. Hell, Stanford could practically feel his capillaries contracting, abandoning his fingers and hands to pull inward and keep his internal organs warm. He appreciated the effort, but he desperately needed some flexibility, to reach his arm out, just for a moment, to stretch out of his fetal position and dig into a pocket inside of his coat. He was so close. So close to the device he'd found in Dimension H-29, the device he kept on hand, just in case he ever needed... He just _needed..._

Complacency was setting in. His heart rate was no longer constant, rather a rare gentle thump through a thick fog of dulled electrical impulses and frozen bundles of nerve tissue, serving a quiet reminder to whoever might listen. But no one was listening.

TRUST NO ONE.

Determination to find the device going silent as apathy set in.

All emotions, all thoughts, all everything going silent as stupor set in.

Heart beat and neural impulses going silent as unconsciousness set in.

Bill Cipher's deafening laughter loudly enveloping the cerebrum as death set in.

And then, Stanford could only see black.

* * *

And then, all that Stanford could see was _Stanley_.


	6. Bright White Wasteland (ii)

_A/N: warning for some Super Duper Subtle implications of abuse coming up. blink and you'll miss it._

 _(double update because IM SO SORRY IT TOOK SO LONG! lots of stangst here to make up for it, though?)_

* * *

Nine years old. Spring. _A dark room, a nightmare, and a brand new bunk bed._

' _Uh, hey, Poindexter?'_

'' _M asleep, Lee. What's wrong?'_

' _Bad dreams again.'_

' _We can share a bed, like usual. Don't need to ask, just come up here.'_

' _I... I can't.'_

 _It took Stanford a moment to process what his brother meant. "Oh," he said after a period of silence. 'You still scared of heights?'_

 _Stanley didn't answer the question, just stared down at his hands. He'd always been afraid of heights. There wasn't any reason, and Dad always said he was a wimp, but he couldn't help it. Something about being high up just made Stanley need his brother there with him. That's how Stanley always felt when he got scared: whether it was heights or bullies or teachers or Dad, Stanford always made him feel better. That's why they had 'sleepovers' whenever Stanley had a bad dream. But now, Stanford had the top bunk, and when Stanley thought about climbing up those rungs and seeing the bedroom floor so far below them..._

 _Before long, Stanley heard the soft creaks of his brother climbing down the ladder, then he felt a warm body climb into bed beside him. He smiled thankfully, wrapping Stanford in a tight hug. 'You're the best.'_

' _No, you're the best.'_

 _That made something twist around in Stanley's insides. He'd never been the best at anything before. ''Night, bro.'_

' _Night, bro.'_

Eleven years old. Summer. _Sunny skies, beautiful beaches, and a shipwreck._

' _Woooahh!'_

' _A shipwrecked sailboat! Possibly haunted by pirate ghosts!'_

' _This is the greatest thing I've ever seen! And I once saw a dead rat floatin' in a bucket!'_

 _Stanford punched his brother, giggling. 'Eww! What's wrong with you?'_

 _Stanley giggled back. He put his hands on his hips, surveying the wrecked boat before them. 'Huh...' An idea started brewing in his mind, and he looked back at his twin with a devilish grin on his face. 'Ya know what this thing's missin'?'_

 _Stanford immediately understood and excitedly pulled off his shirt, holding it up proudly. 'Flags!'_

' _Hey, good thinkin,' Poindexter!' Stanley teased, playfully mussing up Stanford's hair before pulling his own shirt over his head. The twins laughed and roughhoused as they struggled to climb up the boat, the hot summer sun beaming onto their backs and shoulders. Once they managed to fasten their makeshift flags to the boat's mast, they wasted no time in pushing their proud discovery down the beach._

 _They laughed and played all the way, declaring to the world what they had found together: it was theirs. A silent understanding was building between them that they would always have this beach, they would always have this boat, and they would always, always,_ always _have each other._

' _Kings of New Jersey! Kings of New Jersey! Kings of New Jersey!'_

Thirteen years old. Autumn. _A Bar Mitzvah, a pair of Groucho Marx glasses, and an angry father._

' _Lee?'_

' _Don't come in.'_

' _I just wanted to talk.'_

'' _Bout what?'_

 _Stanford sighed and leaned against the bathroom door, wishing that his brother would let him in. He always hid like this after Dad got upset with him. Just a few hours ago, Stanley had shown up to their_ seudat mitzvah _wearing a pair of Groucho glasses. Dad was barely able to keep from blowing up in front of their friends and family members, and the moment that the celebration was over and all the guests had left the community center, Dad ripped the glasses from his son's face, crushing them in his hand, and ordered Stanley to get in the car. It was fairly clear what would happen as soon as they were back home._ ' _Well... I know Dad was really mad back there... Ma took me to get ice cream so I wouldn't see him yell at you.'_

' _He didn't_ yell _at me.'_

 _Stanford cringed. He knew what that meant. He never knew what to say when this happened... But he was desperate to cheer his brother up. 'Um, I thought the glasses were really funny.'_

 _Stanley cracked the door open, peering out. 'You did?'_

' _Yeah! Who cares what Dad says? I was going crazy trying to answer all our aunts' and uncles' questions and watching everyone talk about us like we weren't in the room. The only thing that kept me sane during that whole thing was you making funny faces at me!'_

 _Stanley chuckled softly and opened the door the rest of the way, pulling his brother into a hug. 'Thanks, Sixer.'_

Fifteen years old. Winter. _The blizzard of the century, a yearning for adventure, and an inadequate winter coat._

' _You have to wear more layers than that, Lee.'_

' _Psh, maybe_ you _do. Ya might be smart, Poindexter, but I'm tough! 'Sides, what's the worst that can happen?'_

' _Well, if your body temperature drops, it could weaken your immune system, and your T-cells won't be able to signal the presence of a threat to summon antiviral proteins in time to efficiently combat antigens, then you come into contact with a rhinovirus, and before you know it you've got-'_

' _A cold? Then I'll get to stay home from school, and everyone wins.' Stanley flashed a cocky grin at his brother._

 _Stanford rolled his eyes, chuckling. Stanley was always so stubborn; it wasn't worth the argument. Besides, Stanley_ was _tough. He'd be okay._

 _They decided to split up so they could cover more ground, spending the snow day scouring the icy beach for parts to use on the Stan O' War. They decided to meet back at the sailboat after a few hours of searching so they could get back home. 2:30 was the agreed time—not surprisingly, Stanford was sitting on the old sailing yacht by 2:28._

 _He looked at his watch as he waited for Stanley to show._

 _2:30._

 _2:33._

 _2:36._

 _It wasn't rare for Stanley to be late, but as 2:45 came around, Stanford let himself start to worry._

 _He waited for 3:00 to pass before he went looking for his brother._

 _It was almost 4:30 when he found him lying a few feet from the water, curled up for warmth._

' _Stanley! Are you okay?' Stanford rushed to touch his brother's face, and it was cold as clay. He looked down at his body and the light zip-up hoodie was soaking wet, sticking to his body and letting the freezing air pierce through. 'Lee, what happened?'_

' _Saw somethin' in the water,' Stanley mumbled, barely audible._

' _You dork,' the older twin sighed. He quickly unzipped his brother's jacket and peeled it off, shedding his own coat and wrapping it around Stanley._

' _No,' Stanley protested weakly, 'Ya need it...'_

" _I'll be fine, Lee. I'm wearing_ layers. _You know, to stay warm?"_

 _Even in his lethargic state, Stanley managed a small, feeble smile. "Know-it-all," he accused._

 _Stanford rolled his eyes, helping his twin pull the sleeves of the coat over his arms. It was kind of small on him – ever since Dad put them in boxing, Stanley worked endlessly to excel at the sport, building muscles as he clung to the chance to be good at something – but at least it was warm and dry. 'Come on. Let's get you back home. Can you stand up?'_

 _Stanley didn't offer a real answer; he just groaned._

 _Stanford sighed, trying to calculate a plan. He just removed his hat and covered Stanley's ears, then took his twin's hands for the sake of warming them. They sat in silence as they waited for Stanley to gain the strength to stand up, and Stanford wished he had been more forceful when he urged his brother to dress appropriately for the weather._

' _Sixer?' Stanley said softly after a while._

' _Yeah, Lee?'_

* * *

"Lee?"

Stanford's eyes fluttered open and blinked in the warm, orange light. He tried to sit up, but he was cardboard and clay, a uselessly stiff body.

 _Where am I?_

"Stanley, are you okay? Where are you? What happened?"

 _Wait._

Hadn't he been far, far away from home? He hadn't spoken to his brother in three years, hadn't been on good terms with him in thirteen. And hadn't he been lost in a tundra? In another dimension, one with nothing but snow and mountains and a single great white beast.

But now, Stanford wasn't surrounded in blinding white snow under a pale wisteria sky. Everything around him was black and grey, washed in a gentle orange glow.

After much persuasion, Stanford was able to convince his body to move, to slowly sit up and look around.

That's when he saw the giant.

It was disturbingly human-like, the first thing Stanford had experienced in years that actually resembled the humans he left behind in his own dimension. Ten feet tall with obsidian skin, the giant sat cross-legged in the cave and watched its lantern create wild shapes and shadows that flickered against the walls.

It looked over at Stanford with wide bat-like eyes and grunted softly before mumbling to itself in a strange, unintelligible language. It stood up and started walking over to where Stanford was lying on the ground.

The fugitive flinched, expecting the worst, but the giant simply pressed a large hand on Stanford's chest and gently pushed him back onto the ground.

It spoke again in its strange dialect, looking concerned.

"Wh-where am I? Who are you? What happened to me?"

It patted its chest rhythmically, signifying a heartbeat, then softly put its hand over Stanford's heart and didn't move at all. Slowly, Stanford realized what it was communicating.

 _No heartbeat._

"I died."

* * *

"Ya _what?!"_ Stan exclaimed, slamming his fists to the table.

Surprised at the interruption to his story, Ford looked at his brother with wide eyes. "I... well..." He stared at Stan, at loss for words, and there was a long, pregnant silence.

After a good twenty seconds of scowling at his brother expectantly, waiting for him to explain himself, Stan couldn't take it any longer. "Ya literally _died,_ Ford, and you're just gonna sit there and look at me like a friggin' owl?"

Ford shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Listen, Stan, I'm sitting right in front of you. I'm alive. What did you assume happened? I had been resurrected?"

"Well... yeah? Isn't that where we're goin' with this?"

"No, Stanley. I only _thought_ I was dead."

"Ya said ya _were_ dead, though!" Stan exasperated. "Who tells stories like that?!"

"I did it for effect!"

"Well, effect achieved, pal. Now, what the hell actually happened?"

"I... was still delusional from the hypothermia. In my amnesiatic state, I remembered nothing that happened after the beast sunk its claws into my back. I assumed that I had bled out from the injury and I was now in some sort of an afterlife."

"Afterlife," Stan scoffed. "Ya really _were_ delusional."

Ford just nodded. He and his brother had both abandoned religion long ago.

"So, what the hell _was_ that giant thing doin' with ya?"

"Communication with the giant was very difficult at first, but it eventually began to draw small pictures on the cave walls to tell me what had happened. It found me in the snow after I had lost consciousness, and it was able to sense that I was alive, albeit barely. It took me into its cave and, using its peculiar abilities, it strengthened my life force, raising my core temperature while ensuring that my blood pressure remained high enough that I wouldn't die from the shock of my blood vessels suddenly expanding from warmth. The gash in my back was mending itself and my leg no longer felt broken. The giant was healing me."

"Sounds like a real stand-up guy. It fix your thing-a-ma-whatchit too?"

"The rift indicator? Unfortunately, no. The giant wasn't able to solve all of my problems. But when I asked it if I might be allowed to stay in its cave in order to remain alive long enough to fix the device and enter the next dimension, it seemed to understand my request and it extended its hospitality for as long as I may need it."

* * *

The fugitive stayed in the cave with the giant for several weeks. It often left for days at a time, but Stanford was safe within the orange-lit walls of the shelter. Food, water, and firewood were scarce as ever in the wasteland, but the giant's powers kept him alive and warm.

He always thanked the creature profusely; despite it having no ability to speak any of the dozens of languages Stanford had learned over the years, it seemed, to a certain extent, to understand when Stanford spoke. So, Stanford spoke.

As he tampered and fiddled with his invention, he rambled on about his thoughts and theories regarding the nature of the issue. He knew that the giant most likely did not understand, or at least didn't care, but it seemed to have no objection to listening to the scientist's stream of consciousness.

And after all of those memories of Stanley that resurfaced while Stanford limboed between consciousness and death, maybe he felt some comfort in having someone to talk to.

Once the invention seemed functional, Stanford felt a familiar warm satisfaction spreading through his chest. Pride.

Experimentally, he pointed at a wall of the cavern and adjusted several of the switches until he received a reading. A grin lit up his face and he looked up at the giant, bowing deeply in appreciation and expressing his thanks.

To his surprise, before he was able to pass through to the next dimension, he felt a large, atramentous hand weigh firmly on his shoulder.

He turned around and the giant's inky gaze bore into Stanford as he spoke.

"You are a strong warrior, Stanford Pines," it said in English. Then, it stepped away and offered a short bow to the fugitive. "One day, you will triumph over your enemies, no matter the odds against you."

Stanford gaped up at the giant in wonder. _Incredible..._ It must have been able to learn the language while Ford was speaking to himself in the cave. He quickly regained his composure and gave a nod, determination creasing his brow. "Thank you," he said once more.

Then, he turned, widened the gateway to the next dimension, and stepped through.

* * *

"What the hell _was_ that thing?"

"I don't know," Ford admitted, looking down at his half-cup of coffee, which was cold by now. He took a drink anyway. "In my notes, I called it Winalagalis."

"Weenie-leg-what-iss?"

" _Winalagalis._ The native peoples of British Columbia revere Winalagalis as their god of war. He travels the world, wages wars, rules the wintertime, and brings spirits back from the dead. So I named the giant that I encountered after him, for the sake of documentation."

Stan hummed, sitting back. "Well, I'm glad ya didn't die, Sixer. Woulda been real pissed if I opened that portal and didn't get ya back."

There was a certain mourning playing distantly behind Stan's eyes as if the outcome of opening the portal only to receive a dead body had been a possibility that he actually considered. A painful tug plucked at Ford's heartstrings and he looked away, not wanting to think about what kind of a state he left his brother in.

"I'm glad that you didn't die, as well, Stanley," he whispered.


	7. Jacks or Better to Open

_A/N: some (very brief) mentions of feral ford in here. so heads up for that ;)_

* * *

Stan was hardly able to let the entirety of his brother's story sink in before he was struck with a terrible migraine that throbbed between his ears and behind his eyes.

"I'm glad that you didn't die, as well, Stanley."

Ford's words echoed in Stan's head as if someone had boxed his ears. He shut his eyes, trying to pull himself inward so that he could tell his own brain to keep it down.

Stan was visibly crumbling under the weight of his pounding head. Ford sat up and reached a hesitant hand out to his brother. "Stan?"

"Shut up."

The scientist clamped his mouth shut, half in accordance with his brother's command and half out of pure surprise. His eyes darted around the room as he attempted to calculate what his misstep had been.

Stan just sat there, one hand clutching his head, the other clamped firmly on the table to support his weight. He doubled over and heaved labored breaths as painfully clear images of a younger self flashed themselves onto a projector screen in his mind.

After a minute or so of watching with wide, spooked eyes and a small, confused frown, Ford realized that this was probably one of those situations with which he should provide some assistance. He stood quickly, cringing sympathetically when he saw Stan's face twist in pain at the sound of Ford's chair scraping the floor. Biting back an apology before it reached his lips, he rushed quietly over to the sink and filled a plastic cup with cool tap water.

The migraine faded as abruptly as it began and Stan dared to reopen his eyes just in time to see his brother cautiously approaching him, a cup of water in his hand. "Drink."

Stan grabbed the drink and gulped greedily, a stray channel of water running down his chin as he impatiently turned the glass bottom-up. He gasped when he finished and swiped an arm under his chin to wipe away the rogue drops of water. "Thanks."

Ford wordlessly took the cup back from his twin and returned to the sink to refill it.

They sat in silence as Stan drank his second serving more slowly. Stan started counting the seconds, giving Ford two minutes, tops, to address the elephant in the room.

He was watching his little brother with a concerned frown, arms crossed, shoulders tense. What had been going on in Stan's head just now? Clearly, it had been related to the man's amnesia. Ford struggled to think of anything that could explain what caused the headache. When Stan had remembered things in the past, it never involved physical _pain_. Finally, after about a minute and a half of excruciating silence, Ford said it:

"What did you remember?"

Stan sighed. Honestly, had it been that simple, he might not've minded answering the question. He might've brought it up himself, even, had it been that simple. But it _wasn't_ that simple. Because Stan didn't remember _anything._

"I don't know." After a few beats of silence, he looked up at his brother. "There's that damn confused-owl face again!" he accused.

Ford shook his head, the movement effectively ridding him of his perplexed expression, and he put his hands on his hips as if to accuse his brother of intentionally doing something wrong. "What do you mean you don't know? If you weren't remembering anything just now, then what were you doing?"

"I had a headache!"

"What were you _thinking_ about?"

"I was thinkin' that my head hurt!"

" _Something_ related to your amnesia must have happened! _Something_ must have been unleashed, some form of spontaneous recovery, reminiscence, episodic retrieval, something, _anything!"_ He started speaking excitedly, his frustration rousing him into a manic state.

"Listen, Brainiac, I ain't exactly thrilled with my dumb amnesiac head either! Sorry my brain doesn't work the way ya want it to."

"That's not what I meant, Stanley, I'm just-" Ford pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to calm himself down. Even if Stan didn't realize it, he must have recovered some form of memory during his episode. Perhaps if he could do something to get Stan's mind off of it while gently trying other methods to rouse his memory... "Let's play cards."

"What?"

No explanation was offered. "Poker. Come on. We'll play for loose change."

Stan didn't have the strength to fight back, so he just decided to play along. "Alright," he grunted, standing up. "I'll get the cards. You get the money."

Once a pack of playing cards and a large jar of coins had been brought to the kitchen table, Stan started to shuffle the deck while Ford quickly counted out five dollars in change for each of them to begin with. Ford suggested, "Five card draw?"

"Fine by me. Nickel ante."

The author nodded and pushed a nickel toward the middle of the table; Stan did the same before dealing out the cards, five to each brother. Ford muttered "Check," after briefly glancing at his hand.

Stan glanced up. "Same here." Both brothers pushed their cards to the side and paid another nickel before Ford dealt another round.

They kept playing for a while, the room silent except for the scraping of coins against the wooden table, the flutter of cards being shuffled together, the occasional gruff utterance of one of the brothers' plays.

After about an hour, Ford gently reminded Stan that it was his turn to share a story.

"I ain't got nothin' to tell ya. Whaddaya want?"

"You don't have _anything_ to tell me," Ford corrected before reminding his brother, "Yesterday you said that you remembered some things. You said that you had impressions, that sort thing?"

Stan grunted. "Yeah, I said that. Also said I don't remember enough to tell a whole story about it."

"Doesn't need to be a story," the scientist shrugged. "I myself have some things that I'd rather skip over the details and just tell you the big picture."

Stan raised an eyebrow and put his cards down, officiating his interest in whatever his twin was planning. "Whaddaya mean?"

"I mean, I could've said, 'I once nearly died from hypothermia.' I told a story instead."

The conman nodded slowly, starting to understand. "Alright. So, I could say, 'I once had to chew my way out of the trunk of a car.'"

"You could. But you already told me that." Ford smirked at his twin and laid his own cards on the table.

"Alright, how about this: I once went two weeks without food."

"I once accidentally committed genocide."

"I once fixed my own broken leg with duct tape and a ruler."

"I once was nearly decapitated with a laser beam."

"I once spent the night in a dumpster—wait. No, I think I lived there for about a week."

"That's nothing," Ford challenged, leaning forward. A small plan was forming in the back of his mind. If he could cause his brother frustration by 'competing' with his memories, challenging the severity of his former homeless condition, he may be able to trigger an emotional response that would cause Stanley to remember more. It was a harmless experiment, surely.

Stan narrowed his eyes. He should've known this would become a competition. "Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah. When you compare it to the weeks I spent lost deep in the jungle, it's not anything at all. I was running and hiding from creatures more gruesome than you could never even imagine, Stan."

The conman scoffed. "I've run from gruesome creatures, too."

"You've always had other humans around you."

"They were the ones chasin' me."

"Oh, please. I had to become an _animal_ to survive."

"I was _treated_ like an animal."

"No, _I_ was treated like an animal. You've always had your humanity, Stanley." Without his permission, Stanford started to feel himself actually grow a bit defensive, memories he hadn't intended to bring up rising to the surface. _No, Ford, not now. Your focus is on Stanley. Just- keep going. You're getting something out of him._

"Bullshit," Stan spat. A headache started to form in the back of his head, quietly at first.

"Listen, prison is awful. I get it. It's a shitstorm. But men don't become animals that way. Men become animals when they are surrounded by them. When they do what's necessary to _survive._ When they're haunted by paranoia and will do anything to feel safe _."_

The migraine started pounding, growing, burning, blazing, _breaking_. "This isn't about prison, Stanford."

"What is it, then? Running from the police? Running from other criminals? Stealing things, fighting people, sleeping in your car? Millions of humans go through that shit every day. Most of them will never find a way out, like you did. You're _lucky_ , Stanley."

Stan could hardly hear his brother's voice over the sound of his own head. "Quit it, Stanford!"

He was getting a reaction out of Stan. He just had to push a little harder, dig a little deeper… As much as it hurt to vocalize the self hatred he'd been internalizing for so long, he knew it would be worth it. He had told Stanley he would help him get his memories back. He was going to keep that promise. "Thirty years, Stanley! I was hardly _human_ when I came back through that portal! I've lived through things that the sickest human minds wouldn't be able to _imagine!_ I've _done_ things, _become_ things you couldn't imagine! I was _feral,_ Stanley! I came out the other end a _shadow_ of who I used to be!"

" _Dammit,_ Stanford, _I know!"_ Stan thundered. He shot up from his seat, the force of it sending the chair falling back to the floor and the table jostling loudly upward. His head screamed in protest, the throbbing pain a deep, deafening drum in his ears.

But to Ford, the room was silent. The room, the air, his thoughts, his breath—silent. Everything was _silent._ He gaped at his brother, shocked by the outburst.

"I- Augh, I _know_ you're fucked up, alright?! I _know_ nothin' I've been through is gonna compare to any of your shit! Don't ya think I can see it?! Don't ya think I notice the way ya wander around at night, the way ya yelp like a guard dog when somethin' goes bump in the night?! Fuck, when ya finally wanted to _tell_ me about it, I thought ya trusted me! I thought ya finally figured out ya could tell me this shit. I didn't realize ya were just jumping at the chance for another _competition!_ I never said bein' homeless was worse than bein' some sci-fi murder-fugitive gettin' tortured in every dimension, I just- _Fuck,_ I just wanted to _remember_ it! It'd be easier if ya didn't give a shit, so ya didn't get all _Portal Ford_ on me all the time!"

Ford blinked. He didn't even have the capacity to not know what to say—he was just _stunned._ His mouth twitched, like maybe some words were caught in his throat, but he didn't know what they would have said had they made it to his tongue.

Stan stared incredulously at his brother, bewildered that even now, all he could do was stare. "God dammit," he grumbled, pushing his pile of change toward the center of the table as if to forfeit his winnings. "I'm goin' upstairs. Ya fuckin' owl."

And he took two steps forward, and then he collapsed.


End file.
